Though the house and grounds belonged to my grandparents, the magnificent old banyan tree was mine chiefly because grandfather, at sixty-five, could no longer climb it. Its spreading branches, which hung to the ground and took root again, forming a number of twisting passages, gave me endless pleasure. Among them were squirrels and snails and butterflies, The Grandfather, as old as Dehra Dun itself. I could hide myself in its branches behind thick green leaves and spy on the would below. My first friend was a small grey squirrel. Arching his back and sniffing into the air, he seemed at first to resent my invasion of his privacy. But when he found that I did not arm myself with catapult or air gun, he became friendly, and when I started bringing him pieces of cake and biscuit he grew quite bold and was soon talking morsels from hand. Before long he was delving into my pockets and helping himself to whatever he could find. He was a very young squirrel, and his friends and relatives probably thought him foolish and headstrong for trusting a human.